Just after 9pm I strapped on my portable DAB radio and scurried into the half-light for a possibly injudicious twilight fling across the hills. A brace of freshly-downed post-golf pints of Harvey’s – there is no finer summer ale – nestled heavily in my belly as the Rorschach sweat-puzzle blossomed on my chest. The hounds rejoiced in the cooling air, chasing shadows, their dark, sleek shapes scything across the fading path ahead.
So to the tracks du jour (se soir?).
Motorhead's wonderful Bomber (it’s Obama, it’s Obama) carried me up the slopes towards the racing stables. I let slip a loon’s grin at the familiar, grinding refrain over the rampant, thundering bass, the wild nonsense of the lyrics delivered at furious pace by the ultimate speed-freak. Thin Lizzy’s original studio cut of the Rocker – deliciously raw, deliberately jagged – bounced me up Blackcap, Lynott’s demonic scream delivering lines bursting with studded leather machismo:
Down at the juke joint me and the boys were stompin'
Bippin' an a boppin', telling a dirty joke or two
In walked this chick and I knew she was up to something
I kissed her right there out of the blue
The two tracks fought for my affections but it was 'Sweder's Choice', impossible to pick a winner. I'd laze on worn sofas with my long-haired denim-clad mates, quaffing ale and passing the duchy to a succession of fabulous anthems. Like those fellow headbangers of yore both tunes are warm, familiar friends, trusted guardians of my dark, degenerate rock 'n' roll soul.
Despite a heart-stopping near-miss – I half-turned an ankle on the homeward slopes, a double rifle-crack signalling impending disaster before I leapt like a wounded buffalo, run-hobbling until I was sure my foot wasn’t flopping about like a dead fish – I enjoyed the outing. There’s a deep pleasure to be taken from running at the very end of a day, watching the plains snuggle down under dusks’ blanket as the pink clouds follow their blazing master over the rose-pink horizon. The cool air smelt of impending rain, this balmy weather finally on the turn. I grinned again, looking forward to nice cool, damp Bewl Sunday.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It was an emotional day.
Quite apart from my own personal trauma – lack of running, lack of sleep, injury, illness, absense of general fitness and shrinking self-confidence – there was a communal air of sobriety about our gathering. Bewl 15 was one of Moyleman’s favourite summer outings and we’d decided to honour his memory by running in his name.
My sense of foreboding over my own performance was enhanced when I boarded Ladyrunner’s Love Bus at the un-Godly hour of 08:20. Ladyrunner, Gary, Jeannette and Cam, Chris’s Sister, were already seated and to a man or woman looked lean, mean and ready for action. The ensuing conversation proved more reassuring as each person listed their own ailments, the most common being general shagged-outedness following the recent brutal South Downs Relay.
After a mini-adventure of the camper kind, taking in the scenic and at times far-too-narrow-to-confidently-navigate route, we arrived. The turn out from Brighton was formidable. Watching the red-and-black hoop-vested athletes going through their warm-ups it occurred to me that B&H might stand a fair chance of a team prize. The ladies’ team boasted Katy Moore amongst their number – individual winner last year and holder of the course record. Race organiser Albert Kemp called us under orders and spoke about Chris. He was in the middle of calling for a minute’s silence when spontaneous applause broke out, taken up by the gathering throng until the air rang with enthusiastic clapping. A brief period of reflection followed, then, in the non-nonsense spirit of my dear friend, we were off.
My race was something of a curate’s egg. Having joined my fellow Brightonians at the front of the pack to show respect for Chris I was horrified when without further ado the race started. I was swept along, a drowning man in a rushing torrent of garish Goretex and alarmingly tight-fitting lycra. At one stage I thundered past Julie and Gary, crying out in false bravado ‘Mind out: runner coming through!’ I glanced at my Garmin. Half a click in and I was comfortably on course for a 5K PB. I immediately threw out the parachute and what seemed like the entire race went hurtling by. I slowed, found a far more realistic – and comfortable – cadence and got down to brass tacks. A couple of miles in I spied Camilla coming back towards me through the hoards as she too was swallowed by the more ambitious, able-bodied runners. We hailed one another, cursed our foolishness at starting at the front and resolved to set about salvaging our race.
Right up to the start the weather had teased us with cloudy skies and a cool breeze. No sooner had the first runners lurched off down the mud-flint trail than miraculously the clouds parted to reveal a fully-risen, beaming sun bristling in a bright blue sky. Beads of sweat popped out at the first kiss of unveiled heat. I proceeded to leak profusely, dousing my RC vest and soaking my shorts within the first two miles. T'was ever thus for me in warm races. Sigh.
The course winds its' way around the banks of picturesque Bewl Water, a man-made lake whereupon weekenders water-ski, learn to sail, windsurf, swim and angle. The setting is beautiful. Great leaf-rich trees guard the trail, occasionally yielding to open fields. Whilst under cover we found respite from the heat. Sunbeams danced in the half-light, casting mottled patterns on the forest floor. Once free of cover those same light shafts burned into our heads, shoulders and arms; it was like turning up the gas on a summer's day. More than once I glanced at the postcard-perfect summer sky and muttered darkly under my breath.
‘I know I promised I’d do this but … it bloody hurts and it's hot and I don’t like it! I bet you're laughing your'e ass off where ever you are … ‘
Approaching halfway I felt … surprisingly OK. My pre-emptive Ibuprofen strike (for knees and sore ankle) appeared to have worked. I’d quaffed an energy gel after 6 klicks – I had another in reserve – and that appeared to be working. The outpouring of sweat had remained tolerable and my feet, clad in my beloved red Mizunos, were standing up to the heavy pounding. I relaxed a little ... just as a hand landed on my shoulder.
‘Hello mate!’ It was Rog – Rog-air, God-botherer Rog, co-veteran of Paris, Cape Town and erstwhile companion to Moyleman here at Bewl in years past, founder member of the Habbakuk Harriers. I was delighted to see him, and we nattered like old maids for the next five or six miles. 'Like Paris' I quipped, 'but without the streets, or crazed Parisiens flooding the course.' At some point we parted company with Cam – perhaps she’d heard all Rog’s terrible jokes, or most likely, with Rog being in good form, we’d upped the pace. The Garmin confirmed a slight quickening. I felt OK and we soldiered on, putting the world to rights and remembering Chris with tales rude and glorious.
By the time the 13 mile marker came and went it dawned on me we’d broken the Monster's back. With that revelation came a dreadful flood of fatigue. I dropped off the pace and Rog slowed, but I urged him on. At mile 14 he obeyed, bounding effortlessly away in his easy style. I was left to hang on in there, stealing one and two-minute walk-breaks on the inclines, ducking the merciless sun and, when breaking into a trot, running purely on vapour, desperate for the finish line. When the end came it was a blessed relief, brought closer by the encouraging shouts from Team Moyleman, most of whom has finished some time earlier. Mike Bannister loomed, impossibly tall, on the side of the road, grinning wildly and waving a telescopic arm towards me.
‘Come on Ash … Come on Cam!’
Cam? Blimey, she’d caught me up. There wasn’t time to worry as I looked up and nearly bowled into a marshal at the finish line.
‘Well done!’ ‘Thank God!’
Medal, goodie bag (a small rainforest of flyers plus a Lucozade drink), cake stall (water, rock cake), grass … aaaah!
2:21 – a PB (it’s my first fifteen miler) and, all things considered, I’m pleased with that.
It turned out to be a very good day for the ‘serious’ team.
Each B&H Four won their respective team races. Katy won the ladies senior individual – another sub 1:30 and a new course record. Turns out last year the course measured 14.2 miles; this year they cranked up to the full 15. Fi picked up a gong too. I’d like to say what it was for but in the most shamobolic awards ceremony in the history of amateur athletics all meaning was lost. Matt Bristow came second in the men’s seniors, a terrific effort that he celebrated by contorting himself on the floor of the leisure centre in an effort to drive out his lactic demons and restore feeling to his battered legs.
We lesser mortals gathered on the grass for a picnic. A generous spread unfolded – sandwiches, pies, giant sausage rolls crammed with pork and Brambley apple, crudités, dips, chips, pizza … the 5000 would have been dead chuffed. I unveiled 8 pints of freshly-drawn Harvey’s and proceeded to drink it with invaluable help from Soft Al and Dave. The cast included RC regulars MSilv, Gillybean and Simon, as well as a host of Hove Park & Sunday run regulars. We were a happy, self-satisfied bunch, laughing, joking, swapping food and stories, finally groaning like wounded troops as we tried to rise on stiffening legs.
Thanks go as ever to the selfless marshals and race organisers, plus Camilla for organising the excellent Run For Moyleman purple wristbands (a must-have fashion item avaliable for a modest sum) and to Ladyrunner for kindly driving there and back and for putting up with a lot of babble, banter and intolerable, misleading back-seat navigation.
A Grand Day Out, one to be repeated.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A fine tribute to Moyleman -- well done to all who made the effort. To my shame, this didn't include me.
Great report, as always. That's an annoyingly decent time over 15 hot miles from someone supposedly so badly out of shape.
My own creaking return to fitness is due to start this week, though right now, I feel zero enthusiasm for what's to come. But the thought of continuing to hurtle down this other bumpy hillside is equally unappealing, so something has to give.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Excellent race and report once again Sweder - a cracking time given the prevailing conditions and doubtless Moyley will be smiling knowingly and applauding the effort.
Thanks chaps though in all honesty I'm regretting my 'heroics' as I try to walk. 15 miles of super-heated pounding on hard, dry trails exacted a heavy toll. I resemble the dancers in 'They Shoot Horses Don't They?'.
EG I'm feeling discretion may be the better part of valour. It was brutal out there. Fear not, we'll all be back in 2010 when, post-Conemara you'll be in fine fettle, as will I.
Meant to mention Tom Roper who flew the RC colours once again. He took a tumble which cost him his GPS but failed to dent his enthusiasm. Great to see him again. Heading for Gatwick & a busman's holiday at CWD Friends for Life. I do hope Mr Branson's crew will be gentle with me ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Poor old Tom -- hasn't had much garmin-luck recently. I'd had a message from him reporting that you had not just survived, but had last been seen brandishing a gallon container of Harvey's, which I found reassuring in a strangely near-paternal fashion. He has a Bewl race report here: http://www.roper.org.uk/marathon2005/200...wl-15.html
I will certainly aim to be there next year. The memory of Moyleman will still be celebrated at the event next year, I'm sure, and for many years to come. (I noticed incidentally, that he died on the same date as the Hillsborough disaster, which is always in the news each year. So no excuse for missing the anniversary.)
Enjoy Florida if it's not going to be all work. A good place for some post-race downtime.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Don't panic: Garmin is in fact fine, though strap needs repair. So do my ribs. The Burra Mem compained like anything about the amount of Bewl soil I left in the shower.
Enjoy your Florida adventure. I'll be back for another go next year.
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
Returned to the green Sussex slopes this morning after too-long an absence.
I quite like these 'getting back into it' outings; expectations are low, as are aches and pains, and whilst the chest rattled like an old washing machine for a while I managed, eventually, to work up a reasonable pace.
High white cotton-candy clouds floated gently on a cool breeze. The sun peeped out, probably looking for Lords where the Ashes battle was due to resume with the second test nicely poised. The hounds raced merrily across the dust-dry tracks, in and out of the high waving grasses so reminiscent of the punishing rough up at Turnberry.
My thoughts were drawn to the drama of last night's Open golf championship. Tom Watson defied his aching bones and all percieved wisdom re: old duffers to lead a world-class field right up to the final put. That his short putting stroke, so often the bane of his recent professional life, broke down in the end was tragic (in a sporting context). Having lost the chance to win outright Watson took on Stewart Cink, 24 years his junior and yet to win a Major, over a four-hole play-off. The five-times former winner came apart like a sand sculpture in a hurricane, his hitherto golden armour of invincibility crumbling to scatter across the hardened links as Cink marched cruelly on. It was as if Old Tom, having played like a god for the best part of four days, un-troubled by wind, rain or the torrents of hysterical hyperbole, had caught a glimpse of his mortality in a tee-side mirror. He looked up and saw a wrinkled, withered old man, and in that moment of horrible realisation his game disintergrated. The old master, gracious in defeat, was left to rueful cogitation in the arms of his wife. Cink rejoiced, his glee tinged with the inevitable sadness that comes with witnessing the demise of a hero first hand, and by your own hand at that. His family joined him on the 18th green for an unscripted, touchingly emotional huddle, his bald pate glistening like the silver claret jug in the gloaming.
It was a sad end to one of the most amazing sporting stories of this or any recent year. Unsated we're ready for another to unfold today, gorging on a succulent feast that only an English Ashes summer can deliver. As I set off to face my own somewhat less public challenge I wondered at the likely outcome. Logic calmly stated that England should win - a rested Flintoff almost an unfair weapon to set upon the Aussie middle order; yet my heart, carved from English oak riddled with wriggling doubt, quivered at the thought of those jut-jawed, squint-eyed hardnuts from Down Under putting our brave boys to the sword. As it turned out my fears were groundless. Freddie rampaged in like monster unleashed, hurling firey missiles at the cowering batsmen. God help Australia if he ever gets fully fit.
I thought further about Watson's fall and wondered if it wasn't a good thing after all. We all like a sensational story, yet for a man approaching his sixtieth year to beat the world's top players suggests, perhaps, that his sport is nothing more than a gentleman's past-time. As I wobbled across the hills, my feet unimpressed with the failure of last night's rain to soften the going, my i-Plod offered musical reward for my endeavours. Set to shuffle the tiny gadget offered treat after treat, a collection of my favorite tracks plucked at random from my vast digital vault.
Here's the running order: Black Sabbath (Black Sabbath); Going Down (Motorhead); Just Another Day (Girlschool); Little Wing (Stevie Ray Vaughan's instrumental cover of Jimi's classic); Roundabout (Yes); La Grange (ZZ Top); Oh My God (Kaiser Chiefs) ... every one featured here as a track du jour at some point. There's no doubt the bouncing rhythms helped me puff and pant my way around the five miles, sweat pouring freely from my sun-kissed brow to douse my shirt and shorts.
It's nice to be back out there. Must do it again.
Soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having flapped about the house like a demented penguin in my new-found footwear last night I decided to get out on the trails this morning. Mrs S had fallen to weep uncontrollably on the sofa as I padded in and out of the living room, but I'm used to such stoical support; water off a web-footed creatures' back. Putting these things on is an art in itself; big toe first, following in sequence by the other piggies. Heel snuggled in and velcro cross-strap affixed it was time to face the world.
Once again we’d had a decent amount of overnight rain and yet the ground seemed as hard and uncompromising as well-set concrete. I set off up my usual track, replete with loose stones and occasional canine deposits, heading towards the sheep field. The first thing to note is how free one feels in these … what are they? Skins? I’ll go for skins. Although the KSO* is enclosed – designed for off-road, mucky habitats with a protective canopy across the top of the foot – it did feel like running in bare feet. The toughened areas of the sole – under balls of the feet, each toe and the heel – are effective in offering protection much as I imagine heavy calouses would. I must report however a Pavlovian reaction to the occasional loose impediment. Every now and then a stone would appear beneath the rather softer arch area and I’d wince and hop.
Onto the grasslands of Landsport Bottom I was spared this occasional torture. Running freely I certainly felt different. Naturally one fixes attention on the ground ahead so as to avoid unpleasantries, but even so I felt more upright. Heal strikes were jarring and painful so I gradually moved my weight forward, spreading the impact more evenly on each foot. I can see where an amount of practice will over time lead to an entirely altered running stance.
Mindful of the advice to take it easy at first I cut short the run, hopping the fence at the dew pond and heading off down the bridle path that forms the South Downs Way proper. Here I encountered more stones and twigs, testing my powers of concentration and endurance. There’s no doubt these encounters are painful at first, but even over the course of this short jog – 2.4 kilometres total – I could sense my feet getting used to the occasional jab.
The upshot is I intend to persevere. I’ll hit a few more of these short runs, and maybe in a week or two step up to my regular five-miler. I’ll have to revert to my Mizunos for the Sunday plod – I’m not ready for a longer stint nor the merciless ribbing likely to come my way. But, first impressions; interesting.
[SIZE="1"]* Other designs included for yoga, sprinting, rock-climbing, watersports etc. More details here[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not sure about fell-running - as in the real deal - in these Glaconman.
My softy hills are OK with their occasional rough patches but full-on rock trails would be pretty tough on the tootters.
Races? Hmm ... I guess that might happen EG. My worry would be getting stepped on - not much upper-foot protection there. But some of the research I've read includes claims to improve performance and I can honestly see how that might happen. It's hard to explain but I did feel lighter somehow - perhaps that's because I was consciously treading with more care.
More work to be done here.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The first one here to give the 'five-fingers' a go - you're ahead of the pack Sweder. I think if you can run off-road in these, then I should be able to run along our paved paths no problem. If I have time this weekend (Folk Festival all weekend so could be tough) I'll dash out and buy a pair. Might go for one of the other styles though.
My second forray in the webskins, a warm, sunny hillside jaunt of a shade over 5 kilomeres. Another positive outing at a reasonable (for me) pace.
I can feel different muscle groups responding to my altered gait, in particular my calves (calfs) which are grumbling at being called into extra service.
Uphill running is a pure pleasure. The inclined terrain encourages front-foot landing. Downhill is a horse of a different colour, the natural contact being heel-first. The jarring from a heavy heel strike in the KSOs goes straight through your body to reverberate around your jaw and rattle your teeth, so the positive, downhill lean - taught to me by Moyleman on our long, hilly Sunday runs - has to be accentuated to an alarming degree. At times I felt I was about to plunge head-long into the hard, dusty turf, but, happily, managed to remain upright, and to adjust yet again to a new running sensation.
More sessions planned for next week, including a full 5-miler Blackcap run. There's a lot to learn but, for now, I intend to keep going with the 'barefoot' experiment.
Sorry Stevio, the new skins are not quite ready for a Sunday run debut
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A return to Sunday running - long overdue - and the ample bosom of the Jog Shop Joggers.
How good to see those familiar faces - Stevio, Gillybean, Ade, Cam, Steepler, London Mick, Isabelle - assembled above the marina this morning. Steve, having just returned from a mammoth pasta-fest in Italy, was proudly displaying something close to a belly wrapped in his skin-tight running shirt. I was tempted to ship up my RC Vest and, in a true Crocodile Dundee stylee, proclaim:
That's not a belly:
Now THAT's a belly ...
Lucky for the others I thought better of it.
3 miles in we'd reached the toilets at Saltdean in a comfortable 30 minutes. I felt pretty good, although seemed to be working harder than usual to keep such an easy pace. Another 3 miles in we'd climbed the Tye and were running west across the ridge, heading for Old Snakey, and I was most certainly getting worried.
Now you might wonder at the folly of a man who's managed a mere handful of five mile outings in the past month taking on the thick end of thirteen hilly miles, and you wouldn't be alone. Several voices kept jabbering away at me, all of them from dark corners of my own tortured mind, suggesting amongst other things that an early cut-back through Rottingdean might be for the best.
Undeterred by such idle and unwanted chatter I ploughed on. We reached the farmer's field, the perilous plummet down a now dry, heavily rutted slope covered in scrub and rocks. Having spent the previous 30 minutes trailing at the back of the group I took advantage of my downhill prowess and launched full-tilt to embrace the drop, passing everone else as Stevio muttered something about 'bloody downhill specialists.' By the time I'd ridden the sling-shot up to the gate I was shot, my legs bulging with lactic acid, lungs somewhere near my throat and any gameplan for finishing this run in good order in tatters.
A brief rest, a gulp of juice and we were off, heading north towards the foothills of the snake. I ran a systems check and was horrified at the results. Little to no energy left, heavy legs, rapid, high-chest breathing and a heart-rate to match Jenson Button's heading flat out into a blind hairpin. I pondored the nature of human folly and the consequences of battered confidence as the doom-clouds gathered. Funny how the mind stands ready to trip us up in our hour of need. Just when I needed some positive thinking all I could focus on was what an almighty struggle it was going to be getting through the next five miles, the first two of which were mercilessly uphill. The sun emerged to turn up the heat and my shoulders sagged a degree or two more.
Cam lingered at the back of the group. I told her I was struggling and she said not to worry, I could go at my own pace. I knew then that would mean a walk-break and ushered her onward. On the Snake proper I watched the coloured vests of my companions climb the hills ahead, getting ever-smaller as I lumbered heavily up the track. Finally I succumbed, slowing to a fast walk, working hard to regulate my laboured breathing and loosen my limbs. After a while I heard footsteps behind and turned to see Irish Micheal thundering up the slope.
'Whatcha doing here mate?' His greeting was filled with great energy and enthusiasm which only served to further dampen my spirits.
'The others are just around the corner' I waved feebly in my best impression of Eeyore, and he set off with a wolfish grin to chase them down.
For ten minutes I marched myself up the serpent's bone-dry back, the wind whipping at my drenched vest and sweat-stained legs, sun throbbing down to burn into my bare shoulders. I glanced up into the branches of the occasional tree, fully expecting to see a cluster of vultures replete with bibs tucked in and drooling beaks. At the final twist I broke into a jog, determined to find a gentle loping gait to get me home. Up ahead I could see the others, gathered gallantly at the gate to wait for their wounded commrade. Touched I stepped it up again, reaching them at something of a gallop but it took all my effort to squeeze a painful grin of thanks as I slumped across the fencepost at the top.
The remaining miles were mostly flat or downhill as we head for home through East Brighton Park. Cam kindly kept me company, as did Steepler who stopped to greet any number of dogs (out with their owners), remove his shirt (bloody hell no need for that!) and to chat to us about his aspirations for the 2010 Brighton Marathon. He vowed to get cracking now rather than wait until January before realising it's too late to make a decent run at a PB.
'I want my finishing time to start with a 2' he announced boldly.
I crawled to a stop at the Marina, breath coming in dainty gasps. My legs sang of lactic acid and pain; I felt broken, like a discarded puppet who's strings are inextricably tangled and who's joints have rusted. Despite the rough ride it was good to do this, to find out where the bottom of the barrel is, lay down a marker from which to move forward. Thanks to all for a great morning; I'll be back, and I'll be better.
19.84 kilometres in 2:11.
Now to walk the dogs and get the Sunday roast on ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
and doubtless Moyley will be smiling knowingly and applauding the effort.
![[Image: fivefingers_kso_hero.jpg]](http://shop.primallifestyle.com/ekmps/shops/thechekclinic/images/fivefingers_kso_hero.jpg)
